


And if my heart should somehow stop

by orphan_account



Category: Thor (Comics), Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mild Blood, possessive bastards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 11:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1345216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It screams out <i>mine</i>, and Thor's body is ever so willing to comply, screaming right back; <i>yours</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And if my heart should somehow stop

"Do you trust me?" 

The question hangs in the air, hovering over them as their gazes meet. Thor knows he doesn't need an answer, but yet he gives him one.

"I do." He replies, not an ounce of hesitation or doubt in his voice.

Thor's large hands come up, settle by the sides of Loki's face, gentle, loving, the pads of his thumbs stroking over sharp cheekbones. A moment of silence passes between them, then two, then three, an unspoken agreement.

Thor offers him a faint nod, a reassurance that maybe wasn't entirely needed but that is welcomed nonetheless; and they finally get to it.

He sheds his chestplate, undoes the fastenings and clasps of his armor, tosses his tunic aside and lies back on the bed, naked body lit only by the few candles on the nightstand, the soft hairs on his legs and his chest prickling as he feels the cool breeze on his skin. He licks his lips, takes a steadying breath, and settles his eyes on his brother's face, shifts a little so he can comfortably allow Loki to sit on his lap, still fully dressed, cape and all.

They don't speak, don't meet each other's gazes, merely stay there as Loki prepares what is needed.

There is a vial pushed into Thor's hands for him to hold, filled with some kind of oil and infused with rare herbs that the thunderer does not recognise, meant to soothe the pain that was to come. Loki dips three fingers in it, lets the excess drip back into the vial before he takes them to Thor's chest, rubs the oil gently over the golden skin over his ribs, spreads the slick evenly over his skin, right above his heart.

It makes Thor's lashes flutter, the oil seeming to grow cold as it comes in touch with his skin, sending faint shivers through his body at the temperature difference. It cools and then warms up again, numbing his skin ever so slightly, yet not enough to keep him from feeling the pain; but he wants it, wants to feel his brother's touch.

Loki lets the oil do its work, and soon enough the vial is taken away, settled back on the night stand and replaced with a dagger, gleaming gold and silver, emerald gem on the hilt glistening with the dim flames of the candles. He turns it over in his hand, lets his green gaze, hungry and expectant, roam over the engravings of the metal, feels its ridges and sharp edges against his palm.

Their gazes meet again; an unspoken question followed by silent reassurance.

They both draw in a breath just as Loki starts, lowers the blade right to Thor's ribcage, digs the sharp point into his skin and watches the prickle of crimson that follows. Soft incantations spill from Loki's lips, some old as time itself, some of his own making, carefully thought out and planned, memorised by heart.

It stings, more than any other cut or bruise he had sustained in his countless years of battles and wars. The blade cuts through his skin and magic courses through the wound, slithering around the cuts that slowly give shape to some runes, Loki's runes, marking Thor as his own.He clenches his fists in the red silken sheets, tries to take a steady breath as he feels the sting and burn on his skin, slipping in through his very core.

It  _hurts_ , but he doesn't stop Loki.

He wants this, as much as it hurts. Wants to be marked by his brother, wants to be claimed by no other. A permanent brand on his skin.

_Loki's._

He draws in a breath, lets his eyes fall closed as he tries to steady himself, and is suddenly aware of the wetness that has gathered in his eyes, of Loki's voice like liquid gold whispering soft nothings in an attempt to sooth him.

It feels like fire in his skin, getting a hold of his heart and  _squeezing_ , drawing out groans of pain from his throat. It feels like forever but it is over before he knows, the tip of the blade -now stained with crimson- carving out the last lines on his skin, finishing Loki's runes with a graceful stroke like that of a quill.

Thor's breath evens out almost instantly, hearing the soft spells that close the skin, scar it permanently.

A brand on his heart.

There is oil on his skin again, soothing the raw skin, and when Loki presses his palm against the fresh scars, they light up to his touch, stand out against his skin, alight with recognition.

Thor opens his eyes again, gazes down at the marks in his chest before he trails them back up to look at Loki's face, hinted with pride and power. He pulls him down for a kiss, soft and tender but full of need, of desire. The tip of his tongue trails swiftly over Loki's lips, gently pressing past them into his mouth, seeking Loki's own.

There is a soft spell whispered into their kiss and Thor feels his brother's armour fade under his hands, replaced only by soft pale skin, all sharp angles and smooth curves. Loki's skin still holds the umblemished tones of youth, marked by naught more than a couple of battle scars, almost like an open canvas for Thor to leave his mark on, a map waiting to be drawn.

He is Loki's as much as Loki is Thor's.

Their kiss is slow, but it is desperate, grabbing and holding onto each other as much as they can, wanting to take it all in. It is need and greed, the scent of ozone before a storm.

Thor's large hands set on the curve of Loki's hips, holds him there as he turns them around on the bed, his heavy weight settling atop his brother, caging him in. Their lips meet, their tongues slide against each other, painting a picture that no one else gets to see, that no one else would understand. Thor's hands roam over his brother's body, trailing each curve, each edge, and drinking him in, the planes of his body that he has long since memorised. His hands are followed by his lips, his teeth, the tip of his tongue, revelling in each of the sounds he manages to draw out from Loki, only for him to hear.

Loki's seidr does quick work of stretching him open, losing no time before he wraps legs and arms around the thunderer, pulls him down on him, and arches his back as he feels the curve of Thor's length pressing into him, inch by tortuous inch, drawing it out for as long as he can.

Thor fucks like he goes to war: with fury and passion, a berserkr rage tugging at his heartstrings, driving the swing of his hammer and the thrust of his hips.

The sounds of their fucking are echoed only by the soft wind slipping in through the windows, blowing off the candles and leaving them in darkness, only their hands and their lips left to lead them through. They know each other by memory, know what makes them gasp, what makes them groan, what makes them come undone.

Loki's hand finds its way to Thor's chest, settles above his ribcage and feels as the scars underneath his fingertips go alight with recognition, a golden light on his chest, warming up to his palm. It screams out _mine,_ and Thor's body is ever so willing to comply, screaming right back; _yours._

The pace of his thrusting quickens, falters a little as they both feel a familiar warmth in their bellies, and their noises become louder, more desperate, hands clawing at each other, bruising, marking. Loki's right hand never moves from the runes carved onto his chest, fingers twitching as their pleasure only grows.

Thor leans his head down, buries his face in the crook of his brother's neck and breaths him in, like musk and earth, like power and magic. Thor smells of thunder, of the calm after a storm, of might and lightning. Their scents mix together as they move; power and lightning, magic and might.

The room is filled with their soft cries and pleas, moans mixing in with the obscene slap of skin against skin; lit only by the dim glow of Loki's runes on his brother's chest, his hand still pressed against them, feeling the physical proof that Thor is his and his alone.

" _Mine._ " Loki groans possessively, his teeth digging into the strong muscles of Thor's shoulder as he cants his hips up in time with Thor's, meeting his thrusts halfway there.

Thor groans, feels his toes curling in pleasure as he nods with eager agreement. _Yes. Yes. I'm yours. Just like that. Yours._

Their bodies sing together, arching, moaning, clawing, the unspoken truth of what they have. They become one and the same, the line of where one ends and the other starts becoming faint as they both topple over the edge, spilling hot and messy between their bodies, yet another claim of each other.

Thor's scars will fade just like any others would, Loki's runes becoming fainter on his skin until it would be just barely noticeable against the tanned skin, they will heal but yet they will remain, branded by magic onto his skin, his heart, only coming alight once more with Loki's touch, forever marking him as Loki's.

 


End file.
